


If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Out of the Kitchen

by frengers



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Bad French, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:18:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frengers/pseuds/frengers
Summary: Isak sighed as he stared down into the bowl of rigatoni he had just prepared. Rigatoni was a noble pasta; it didn’t deserve to be swallowed by a sea of generic brand, canned tomato marinara. Drowned like a cat in a bathtub. A tiny, cheerful Italian flag toothpick stuck out from a lone meatball afloat in the center of the bowl. It was taunting him - like the dish was giving him a little flag shaped middle finger.Isak and Even are professional chefs.





	If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Out of the Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about high-end culinary arts but I just read Kitchen Confidential and I've watched Top Chef, so hopefully this is a little bit believable :D

Even Bech Næsheim was the head chef at Nolita. As head chef, he did _everything_ around the place. He cooked (obviously), created the menu, kept track of the ingredients inventory, and managed his staff. Ah, his staff - he loved those assholes dearly, but the long hours they worked in the hot, cramped kitchen sometimes turned that kitchen into a pressure cooker (ha), where one wrong word or misstep could set someone right off.

It was Even’s job to keep a lid on that situation, and he had never failed to resolve issues in his kitchen until last week. His _saucier_ had quit. Loudly. Enthusiastically. With a lovely garnishing of expletives.

See, one thing about Even was that he was a perfectionist in technique and presentation. He was steadfast to the classic mainstays of French cuisine, yet adamant about adding his own signature creative edge. Sometimes people in his kitchen didn’t agree with his vision. His ex-saucier happened to be one of those people. But that was okay, because honestly, his ex-saucier made a watery blanquette de veau.

The other thing about Even was that he was bipolar. There were times when he didn’t take his meds. Times when he absolutely loved his job and stayed awake until the early hours of the morning, giddily anticipating the looks on patron’s faces as they tasted that new recipe he had lovingly, passionately poured his heart and soul into. Then there were times when he thought his heart and soul had truly left his body, and he was a nearly empty vessel, filled with nothing but _sad_ and _hurt_.

Though, the really important thing about Even at this moment was that he was desperate. Tom Odegaard, the owner of Nolita, was breathing down his neck to hire a replacement. Like, now. And he couldn’t argue really – he and his kitchen’s workload had doubled as they tried to pick up the slack of a missing crucial staff member. But, ugh. They had their own _dynamic_ going. Adding a new person would just uncomfortably rock the boat, wouldn’t it?

“I’m giving you until closing time tonight or I swear to god I am picking someone at random from that pile over there,” Tom said, pointing at a messy heap of crinkled paper resumes on the counter.

“We’re swamped, man, it’s the dinner rush! At least give me until tomorrow morning. I’m telling you, I want a new guy here more than anybody. But I can’t even get a moment to pee, let alone squeeze in a fun resume reading hour. I am honestly considering buying diapers, that’s how pressed for time I am. Do you want that, Tom? Do you want me to be your diaper-wearing head chef?”

Even stopped stirring the soup he was cooking and took a simmering saucepan off the burner. He readjusted the bandana that had slipped a little down his forehead, then looked at Tom expectantly.

Tom shook his head at Even before answering. “You. Are. Fucking. Exasperating.”

 

* * *

 

Isak sighed as he stared down into the bowl of rigatoni he had just prepared. Rigatoni was a noble pasta; it didn’t deserve to be swallowed by a _s_ ea of generic brand, canned tomato marinara. Drowned like a cat in a bathtub. A tiny, cheerful Italian flag toothpick stuck out from a lone meatball afloat in the center of the bowl. It was taunting him - like the dish was giving him a little flag shaped middle finger.

Isak was better than this. He was a fresh-faced chef, recently graduated from Kulinarisk Akademi. He had ambitions, damn it. But breaking into the high-end restaurant world was a little more difficult than he’d anticipated. After being turned down for a few positions, he was stuck in this embarrassing theme restaurant serving up bastardized pasta dishes to a stale soundtrack of off-key opera singing wafting in from the main dining room into the kitchen.

Every night was the same miserable slog. Every night, for six months. Until this night.

At 23:00, he pulled off his chef’s coat, then bundled up in a faded red hoodie and warm parka.

“See you tomorrow, Silas.”

Silas nodded back at him, “Tomorrow’s special is something called ‘baked ziti cheese pizza explosion.’ Really looking forward to it, bro.”

He cracked a slight smile at Silas and walked out the door and into Oslo’s frigid winter night air. Checking his phone, he noticed a new voicemail notification. Pulling up his hat slightly, he pressed his phone to his ear.  
  
“Mr Valtersen, this is Tom Odegaard from Nolita. We received your CV and are reaching out to you about an exciting new opportunity here. I was hoping we could speak soon. Please call back at your earliest convenience.”  
  
Holy fuck. Nolita.

 

* * *

 

Even wiped his hands on the front of his chef’s jacket as he heard Tom walk in with the new recruit. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve got a bunch of dead cow goop on them.”

Then, he looked up. The most intense and perfect green eyes he’d ever seen looked back at him. They were crinkled slightly at the edges from a soft smile.

Shit. He definitely should’ve sat in on the interview. But he was so tired that day, and Tom said he had it covered. Sure, Tom informed him of all the basics like Isak’s cool knife skills and his glowing review from Andreas at Linea Restaurant where the young chef served as _commis_ for three years, but he never even passingly mentioned to Even that this guy was goddamn _beautiful_.

“Ha, no problem. I know how it is,” Isak chuckled.

“Nice to meet you, though. I’ve heard a lot of great things from Tom,” Even said, nodding his chin towards Tom and moving to the sink to wash his hands.

“Thank you. I’m really excited to be working with you. You’re an amazing chef. I’ve eaten here, like, ten or even twenty times already. I love your food,” Isak gushed.

Aw, Isak was blushing a little. Adorable.

Tom leaned back against the handle of the stove he was next to, crossed his arms, and rolled his eyes. He’d heard this a million times before. “Please don’t praise him anymore. His head is going to explode any day now from how inflated his ego has become.”

“He’s joking. Feel free to complement me at your leisure,” Even grinned. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re eager to meet the other astonishing little bundles of talent we have here at this fine establishment. Come on.”

He started walking, assuming Tom and Isak would follow.

They went through a door in the kitchen leading to a small lounge area with two small couches, a coffee table, and a long wooden dining table with twelve matching wooden chairs surrounding it.

Around that table were four people, with a fifth on one of the couches.  
  
“Okay so, this is Jonas, my sous chef. He’s very amicable. Cooks a mean pork chop. When you eat it you’ll be like, how on earth is this so juicy? And look at those cute bushy eyebrows. This guy is a man among men.” Even beamed from ear to ear and clapped his hand on Jonas’s left shoulder.

“Nice to meet you, dude,” Jonas smiled warmly at Isak and held out his hand. Isak shook it, returning an equally bright smile.

“Now this one,” Even moved a step to the right, “Is Eva. Greatest salad maker ever. I mean, whose mouth waters at the thought of salad? Well, I’ll tell you. Someone who knows that their salad is being happily assembled by Eva. Also she’s in charge of uh, most vegetable things. And potatoes. Are potatoes vegetables?”

“Potatoes are tubers,” Eva answered matter-of-factly, taking a sip of tea from the mug in her hands. “Anyway, hi! I’m so glad we have another helping hand here. It gets crazy busy. ”

Even moved on, gesturing to a guy asleep on the sofa who was drooling on a pillow with one leg hanging off the edge of a cushion. “Magnus here has the most important job in the entire kitchen. He is head dishwasher. Leader of the adoring masses of plates and bowls and wine glasses and other stuff that needs washing. As you can clearly see, he’s very dedicated.”

Magnus let out a loud snore.

“Alright. Well, continuing along, this is Mahdi. He keeps us sane. He’s our lovely rotisseur. Plus, he sells the best pot within a fifteen thousand kilometer radius.”

Mahdi beamed a cheery, thousand-watt smile at Isak. “Hey, welcome to the team. Looking forward to working with you. He’s not kidding about that pot thing, by the way. Let me know if you’re interested.”

Isak nodded. “Thanks, me too. And I will.”

“And finally, this is Eskild, our resident pastry chef. Responsible for the ‘Nolita Freshman Fifteen.’”

“Awesome, a new guinea pig. You have to try this dessert I just invented. It’s called ‘The Guru Brulee.’ It’s like a crème brulee, but a hundred times more delicious. That first bite is a spiritual experience that will change your life, hence the ‘guru’ part”

“Sounds awesome, I’m down for that,” Isak said.

This was going to be his new family, the people he would spend more than twelve hours a day with.

Well, after meeting them, he was more than alright with that.


End file.
